Poetry / Literature

My father promised me his garden

when he died those years ago. 

​

I saw pictures and videos. It was a sight to behold. 

A green landscape, a self sustaining ecosystem 

filling itself with fruit of every tree and vermin of every species. 

My father insisted the squirrels and chipmunks didn’t require any fruit 

from his beloved trees, but were too, in fact

self sustaining themselves, as if photosynthesizing in the sunlight. 

The water of the fountain located in the garden’s 

direct center flowed infinitely. It was almost

invisible with how clear it managed to be, how clear

my father managed to keep it. 

​

Videos he’d send me of the branches of the tall

oak swaying in the calm wind functioned not only as a

motivator in my life but as itself sustenance,

as if the blue light of my phone screen were

giving my eyes nourishment. 

​

I imagined myself sitting there, into my

old age as well, my eternity. 

I longed for more footage. I longed for

evidence. 

​

My father has been dead 

for many years now. His death

was brutal. He was brutalized. 

Though his body went through infinite

trials of a parasitic nature,

he never stopped tending his garden. 

Through much litigation upon the

discovery of it, the garden has 

finally been passed down

to me: his only daughter. 

​

I had never seen the garden in person. 

He was an extremely private person, and his

work for whatever government agency he kept from me clearly

served a strong purpose in this world. 

This was clear, upon his death, from the amount of

men entering his house, his home. 

I did not grow up there; my mother

raised me despite her constant absence. I wondered

if my father ever truly wanted me.

​

I was not allowed into my his property 

for seven years after his death. 

Men in gray clothing held my 

body from this place, physically 

restrained me.  

My motivation for being at its gate stemmed from the same

mindset held while my father was still alive:

I wanted to see glimpses through the noise. 

​

Saturated greens flashed around the

gray men as they came in and out of

the garden. All I was able to see was

the blinding color I recognized 

for years on my phone screen. 

In and out. They went in and out. 

Sometimes they exited the property with

something of my father’s. Once, I saw one carrying

a coloring book from my childhood. 

I asked him for it, I begged. “Evidence,”

he said coldly. I never saw him or it again. 

​

After those seven years of waiting, I was

finally given permission to enter. 

What I saw was 

the end. ​

 

The perfectly green grass I witnessed glimpses of in 

photos had been trampled to a dull

orange-brown. 

The trees had lost their leaves. Not from

a seasonal change, for it was late spring, but from lack of care. 

The self sustaining squirrels had been replaced,

taken over by rats. Thin, 

gray rats, with tufts of fur removed, either by fellow

rat or bird. 

These rodents, too, did not touch the 

fruit, for there were none to touch. They resorted to

cannibalism. Infanticide. Survival at

all costs. Tribes of rats, all the

same color.

​

I walk to the center of the garden and sit 

by the large fountain. In it was piles and piles of 

shit. A mountain of shit. 

My father’s water had been turned off years ago, and

in their conquest for knowledge, the gray men

had needed taken a new target for their excrement. 

The stench filled everywhere. It 

filled not only my lungs, but my pores. 

​

I had seen enough. My father’s garden had become

a nightmare incarnate. I could not

distinguish my tears caused by the

overwhelming emotion or the stench. 

I depart from the shit fountain and approach the gate I stood by 

for so long. 

Two gray men stand on the outside, facing

away from me.

The gate is locked. Locked inwards. 

I beg the men to open it at once, the pain

of the ravaged garden becoming unbearable, when I finally

see the paper. 

​

Attached to the gate is a document, a

legal document. Informing me of my 

new role. 

Signed by The King of my country himself, the paper

informed me that I had seen too much, and that

my father’s responsibilities have been

passed down to me. Many apologies

were included, faceless apologies from

an unseen force. The gray men

remained distant. 

​

I had longed for the garden for years and years.

Its arrival was my condemnation.